Kat Richardson: Greywalker

"I'm afraid I don't know. We don't talk. Her address is on the sheet. Maybe you'll have better luck with her than I do."

I made a mental note while I sipped coffee and looked at the list. It was short. Each name was annotated «friend» or "relative," followed by contact information—except for Sarah's, which had only an address.

"I wish there was more for you to start from," Colleen said. "Cameron didn't socialize at home much anymore. He was always very independent, but he was never reckless. When I didn't hear from him, I assumed that he was busy with new projects and studies. It wasn't until he missed his birthday that I began to worry. He's the one who always calls. He participates. He's a good son."

Her tone said someone else was not a good daughter. "How old is Cameron?"

"He turned twenty-one on the seventh of March."

"And how long has he been studying at U-Dub?"

"Three years. Though it will take longer than four years to complete his degree."

"Oh? What's he studying?"

"Majoring in human factors engineering and minoring in Japanese."

I made a puzzled face. "Human factors engineering?"

"Ergonomics," she clarified. "He always knew what he wanted. He started college straight out of high school. I thought he would want to go to Europe for a while with some of his friends, but he said he'd rather 'get a jump on them. " She smiled her pride. "Who could say no to that?"

"When did you see him last?"

"The end of February or the beginning of March…" She flipped open a datebook and glanced through it. "The first of March. Yes…" Her mouth turned down as she paused, remembering.

"You said he had been ill," I prompted.

"Yes. He looked very pale. Distracted. I remember he told me he was just getting over the flu and he didn't want me to catch it. He kept his distance from me all night and picked at his food. He didn't talk much, either."

"I see. Do you have his class schedule?"

She flushed red. "I seem to have left that with the bank statement."

"I'll get them from you later. Can you think of any places he might hang out?"

"He is fond of Waterfall Garden Park, but it's in such a grubby neighborhood. I can't imagine him 'hanging out' there. Of course, he spent a lot of rime around the campus and the U-district. He saw art films at the Grand Illusion once in a while. His roommate will be more help on that."

I knew Waterfall Garden Park. It was only a few blocks from my office. Most of Pioneer Square was grubby, but so were parts of the U-district. The tiny garden was locked at sunset, so I wondered where Cameron was really hanging out when he went slumming in Pioneer—especially since he'd been underage for the primary nightlife down there until March seventh.

"Does Cameron own a car? Do you know where it is?"

"No, I don't. Richard said he hadn't seen it in the parking lot, so he must have it with him."

We could hope that was the case. I kept my mouth shut on the other possibilities.

Colleen continued. "It's some horrendous old sports car, but I can't remember the type." She made a moue of distaste. "He and some friends went to California for a week after their high school graduation, and he drove back in the thing. A money pit."

Colleen interrupted herself with a raised finger. "Wait… I may have that." She flipped open her attaché case and riffled through some envelopes, then pulled one free and handed it to me. "Cameron's registration" was penciled on the flap in a precise, copperplate handwriting.

I took it, looked it over, nodded. "Dark green, 1967 Camaro, license: CAMSCAM." I didn't roll my eyes.

I shut my notebook. "I think I can get started with this. I'll return the photos to you once I've made some copies. Tomorrow, if that's convenient. And I can pick up the schedules and bank statement from you at the same time," I suggested.

She looked relieved. "Yes, that's fine. I have a lunch at the Bellevue Hilton tomorrow. We can meet at the front desk at one thirty."

"Sure." I pulled out my appointment book. As I flipped it open to write down the note, she was opening her own again. Every date I could see in Colleen's calendar had at least two or three appointments on it. And they didn't look like beauty salons and lunches with the girls.

"May I ask what you do, Colleen?"

She looked me in the eye and gave a practiced smile. "I'm an event coordinator. I work as an independent consultant to arrange wed-dings, meetings, parties, conferences, conventions, shows, any sort of large function. I met Nan when I was creating an event for her firm."

I nodded. "And your husband? What did he do? When did he die?"

Her motion stuttered, and she went blank. For a moment I was sure I could see the skull beneath her skin before she spoke. "Daniel died five years ago.

He ran a small engineering firm in Redmond. His partner, Craig Lee, runs it now, though we still hold some stock. Is it important?"

"Just background."

We wrapped up our business and dealt with my contract. She seemed relieved to be back on a professional footing and disposed of the paperwork and retainer with efficiency.

I didn't expect to make a lot off this case. It sounded too typical: a controlling mother whose kids have finally had enough. The daughter had already cut loose and I'd guess the son was doing the same. It was even money he'd turn up with an «unsuitable» girlfriend, bingeing on something, or chasing psychedelic dreams in the clubs. Or all of the above. The depressing grind.

I walked back to my office, thinking about Mrs. Shadley's case. I was at the top of the stairs, about twelve feet away from my office door, when a shadow flickered across the frosted glass panel.

I stopped and frowned, watching for the movement again. When it came, I eased over to the wall and along it to the doorframe. I crouched down next to the door and listened. My heart squeezed and fluttered in my chest. There was someone—two someones—in my office, and it sounded like they were searching the place. Without a thought, I reached for my gun.

And stopped.

What was I doing? There were two men searching my office and I was ready to fling open the door and confront them with gun drawn. Had I gone stupid while dead? I'd once cornered a rat by accident and had a neat line of scars on my hands and one leg to remind me. Was I now proposing to stand between these two rats and the only exit? Hell no. Once dead in a month was plenty.

I slid my pistol back into the small of my back and duckwalked across the hall to the offices of Flasch and Ikenabi, accountants. The secretary stared at me as I waddled in—no mean trick in a skirt and heels.

"Can I help you?" she squeaked.

I closed the door, stood up and spoke in a low voice. "Um. yes. I'm Harper Blaine. I have the office across the hall and there seem to be two men searching it without my permission. I'd like to use your phone to call the police."

Huge-eyed, she pushed a button on her phone and offered me the handset. Gotta love speed dial.

I called it in and warned the operator that my office looked down on the west side of the building, so the patrol should approach with caution. I stayed in the accountants' outer office, waiting.

In minutes, a police car blipped its siren to get through the intersection and pulled up outside—on the west side of the building. Two men exploded out of my office and raced for the stairs. They brushed right past the officers coming up. With a yell that echoed throughout the building, the cops gave chase, but lost them.

The two patrol officers came back up the stairs a while later and met me in front of my office. The door was standing open. The place was a mess. Papers and files were strewn across the desk and floor, and my rolling file cabinet had been pulled out into the center of the room. Its two drawers hung out. My computer was on and the little safe under the desk was open. The burglars had either been here longer than I thought, or they were quick workers.